A STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLS
THIS story is from the sand-dunes or sand-hills of
Jutland, but it does not begin there in the North, but far
away in the South, in Spain. The wide sea is the highroad from
nation to nation; journey in thought; then, to sunny Spain. It
is warm and beautiful there; the fiery pomegranate flowers
peep from among dark laurels; a cool refreshing breeze from
the mountains blows over the orange gardens, over the Moorish
halls with their golden cupolas and coloured walls. Children
go through the streets in procession with candles and waving
banners, and the sky, lofty and clear with its glittering
stars, rises above them. Sounds of singing and castanets can
be heard, and youths and maidens dance upon the flowering
acacia trees, while even the beggar sits upon a block of
marble, refreshing himself with a juicy melon, and dreamily
enjoying life. It all seems like a beautiful dream.
Here dwelt a newly married couple who completely gave
themselves up to the charm of life; indeed they possessed
every good thing they could desire- health and happiness,
riches and honour.
We are as happy as human beings can be," said the young
couple from the depths of their hearts. They had indeed only
one step higher to mount on the ladder of happiness- they
hoped that God would give them a child, a son like them in
form and spirit. The happy little one was to be welcomed with
rejoicing, to be cared for with love and tenderness, and enjoy
every advantage of wealth and luxury that a rich and
influential family can give. So the days went by like a joyous
festival.
"Life is a gracious gift from God, almost too great a gift
for us to appreciate!" said the young wife. "Yet they say that
fulness of joy for ever and ever can only be found in the
future life. I cannot realise it!"
"The thought arises, perhaps, from the arrogance of men,"
said the husband. "It seems a great pride to believe that we
shall live for ever, that we shall be as gods! Were not these
the words of the serpent, the father of lies?"
"Surely you do not doubt the existence of a future life?"
exclaimed the young wife. It seemed as if one of the first
shadows passed over her sunny thoughts.
"Faith realises it, and the priests tell us so," replied
her husband; "but amid all my happiness I feel that it is
arrogant to demand a continuation of it- another life after
this. Has not so much been given us in this world that we
ought to be, we must be, contented with it?"
"Yes, it has been given to us," said the young wife, "but
this life is nothing more than one long scene of trial and
hardship to many thousands. How many have been cast into this
world only to endure poverty, shame, illness, and misfortune?
If there were no future life, everything here would be too
unequally divided, and God would not be the personification of
justice."
"The beggar there," said her husband, "has joys of his own
which seem to him great, and cause him as much pleasure as a
king would find in the magnificence of his palace. And then do
you not think that the beast of burden, which suffers blows
and hunger, and works itself to death, suffers just as much
from its miserable fate? The dumb creature might demand a
future life also, and declare the law unjust that excludes it
from the advantages of the higher creation."
"Christ said: 'In my father's house are many mansions,'"
she answered. "Heaven is as boundless as the love of our
Creator; the dumb animal is also His creature, and I firmly
believe that no life will be lost, but each will receive as
much happiness as he can enjoy, which will be sufficient for
him."
"This world is sufficient for me," said the husband,
throwing his arm round his beautiful, sweet-tempered wife. He
sat by her side on the open balcony, smoking a cigarette in
the cool air, which was loaded with the sweet scent of
carnations and orange blossoms. Sounds of music and the
clatter of castanets came from the road beneath, the stars
shone above then, and two eyes full of affection- those of his
wife- looked upon him with the expression of undying love.
"Such a moment," he said, "makes it worth while to be born, to
die, and to be annihilated!" He smiled- the young wife raised
her hand in gentle reproof, and the shadow passed away from
her mind, and they were happy- quite happy.
Everything seemed to work together for their good. They
advanced in honour, in prosperity, and in happiness. A change
came certainly, but it was only a change of place and not of
circumstances.
The young man was sent by his Sovereign as ambassador to
the Russian Court. This was an office of high dignity, but his
birth and his acquirements entitled him to the honour. He
possessed a large fortune, and his wife had brought him wealth
equal to his own, for she was the daughter of a rich and
respected merchant. One of this merchant's largest and finest
ships was to be sent that year to Stockholm, and it was
arranged that the dear young couple, the daughter and the
son-in-law, should travel in it to St. Petersburg. All the
arrangements on board were princely and silk and luxury on
every side.
In an old war song, called "The King of England's Son," it
says:
"Farewell, he said, and sailed away.
And many recollect that day.
The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,
And everywhere riches and wealth untold."
These words would aptly describe the vessel from Spain,
for here was the same luxury, and the same parting thought
naturally arose:
"God grant that we once more may meet
In sweet unclouded peace and joy."
There was a favourable wind blowing as they left the
Spanish coast, and it would be but a short journey, for they
hoped to reach their destination in a few weeks; but when they
came out upon the wide ocean the wind dropped, the sea became
smooth and shining, and the stars shone brightly. Many festive
evenings were spent on board. At last the travellers began to
wish for wind, for a favourable breeze; but their wish was
useless- not a breath of air stirred, or if it did arise it
was contrary. Weeks passed by in this way, two whole months,
and then at length a fair wind blew from the south-west. The
ship sailed on the high seas between Scotland and Jutland;
then the wind increased, just as it did in the old song of
"The King of England's Son."
"'Mid storm and wind, and pelting hail,
Their efforts were of no avail.
The golden anchor forth they threw;
Towards Denmark the west wind blew."
This all happened a long time ago; King Christian VII, who
sat on the Danish throne, was still a young man. Much has
happened since then, much has altered or been changed. Sea and
moorland have been turned into green meadows, stretches of
heather have become arable land, and in the shelter of the
peasant's cottages, apple-trees and rose-bushes grow, though
they certainly require much care, as the sharp west wind blows
upon them. In West Jutland one may go back in thought to old
times, farther back than the days when Christian VII ruled.
The purple heather still extends for miles, with its barrows
and aerial spectacles, intersected with sandy uneven roads,
just as it did then; towards the west, where broad streams run
into the bays, are marshes and meadows encircled by lofty,
sandy hills, which, like a chain of Alps, raise their pointed
summits near the sea; they are only broken by high ridges of
clay, from which the sea, year by year, bites out great
mouthfuls, so that the overhanging banks fall down as if by
the shock of an earthquake. Thus it is there today and thus it
was long ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the
beautiful ship.
It was a Sunday, towards the end of September; the sun was
shining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of
Nissum was carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds.
The churches there are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of
stone, each like a piece of rock. The North Sea might foam
over them and they would not be disturbed. Nearly all of them
are without steeples, and the bells are hung outside between
two beams. The service was over, and the congregation passed
out into the churchyard, where not a tree or bush was to be
seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had not placed a
single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the same now.
Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried, and rank
grass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole
churchyard; here and there a grave has a sort of monument, a
block of half-decayed wood, rudely cut in the shape of a
coffin; the blocks are brought from the forest of West
Jutland, but the forest is the sea itself, and the inhabitants
find beams, and planks, and fragments which the waves have
cast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by
loving hands on a child's grave, and one of the women who had
come out of the church walked up to it; she stood there, her
eyes resting on the weather-beaten memorial, and a few moments
afterwards her husband joined her. They were both silent, but
he took her hand, and they walked together across the purple
heath, over moor and meadow towards the sandhills. For a long
time they went on without speaking.
"It was a good sermon to-day," the man said at last. "If
we had not God to trust in, we should have nothing."
"Yes," replied the woman, "He sends joy and sorrow, and He
has a right to send them. To-morrow our little son would have
been five years old if we had been permitted to keep him."
"It is no use fretting, wife," said the man. "The boy is
well provided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to."
They said nothing more, but went out towards their houses
among the sand-hills. All at once, in front of one of the
houses where the sea grass did not keep the sand down with its
twining roots, what seemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A
gust of wind rushed between the hills, hurling the particles
of sand high into the air; another gust, and the strings of
fish hung up to dry flapped and beat violently against the
walls of the cottage; then everything was quiet once more, and
the sun shone with renewed heat.
The man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon
taken off their Sunday clothes and come out again, hurrying
over the dunes which stood there like great waves of sand
suddenly arrested in their course, while the sandweeds and
dune grass with its bluish stalks spread a changing colour
over them. A few neighbours also came out, and helped each
other to draw the boats higher up on the beach. The wind now
blew more keenly, it was chilly and cold, and when they went
back over the sand-hills, sand and little sharp stones blew
into their faces. The waves rose high, crested with white
foam, and the wind cut off their crests, scattering the foam
far and wide.
Evening came; there was a swelling roar in the air, a
wailing or moaning like the voices of despairing spirits, that
sounded above the thunder of the waves. The fisherman's little
cottage was on the very margin, and the sand rattled against
the window panes; every now and then a violent gust of wind
shook the house to its foundation. It was dark, but about
midnight the moon would rise. Later on the air became clearer,
but the storm swept over the perturbed sea with undiminished
fury; the fisher folks had long since gone to bed, but in such
weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there
was a tapping at the window; the door was opened, and a voice
said:
"There's a large ship stranded on the farthest reef."
In a moment the fisher people sprung from their beds and
hastily dressed themselves. The moon had risen, and it was
light enough to make the surrounding objects visible to those
who could open their eyes in the blinding clouds of sand; the
violence of the wind was terrible, and it was only possible to
pass among the sand-hills if one crept forward between the
gusts; the salt spray flew up from the sea like down, and the
ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards the beach. Only a
practised eye could discern the vessel out in the offing; she
was a fine brig, and the waves now lifted her over the reef,
three or four cables' length out of the usual channel. She
drove towards the shore, struck on the second reef, and
remained fixed.
It was impossible to render assistance; the sea rushed in
upon the vessel, making a clean breach over her. Those on
shore thought they heard cries for help from those on board,
and could plainly distinguish the busy but useless efforts
made by the stranded sailors. Now a wave came rolling onward.
It fell with enormous force on the bowsprit, tearing it from
the vessel, and the stern was lifted high above the water. Two
people were seen to embrace and plunge together into the sea,
and the next moment one of the largest waves that rolled
towards the sand-hills threw a body on the beach. It was a
woman; the sailors said that she was quite dead, but the women
thought they saw signs of life in her, so the stranger was
carried across the sand-hills to the fisherman's cottage. How
beautiful and fair she was! She must be a great lady, they
said.
They laid her upon the humble bed; there was not a yard of
linen on it, only a woollen coverlet to keep the occupant
warm.
Life returned to her, but she was delirious, and knew
nothing of what had happened or where she was; and it was
better so, for everything she loved and valued lay buried in
the sea. The same thing happened to her ship as to the one
spoken of in the song about "The King of England's Son."
"Alas! how terrible to see
The gallant bark sink rapidly."
Fragments of the wreck and pieces of wood were washed
ashore; they were all that remained of the vessel. The wind
still blew violently on the coast.
For a few moments the strange lady seemed to rest; but she
awoke in pain, and uttered cries of anguish and fear. She
opened her wonderfully beautiful eyes, and spoke a few words,
but nobody understood her.- And lo! as a reward for the sorrow
and suffering she had undergone, she held in her arms a
new-born babe. The child that was to have rested upon a
magnificent couch, draped with silken curtains, in a luxurious
home; it was to have been welcomed with joy to a life rich in
all the good things of this world; and now Heaven had ordained
that it should be born in this humble retreat, that it should
not even receive a kiss from its mother, for when the
fisherman's wife laid the child upon the mother's bosom, it
rested on a heart that beat no more- she was dead.
The child that was to have been reared amid wealth and
luxury was cast into the world, washed by the sea among the
sand-hills to share the fate and hardships of the poor.
Here we are reminded again of the song about "The King of
England's Son," for in it mention is made of the custom
prevalent at the time, when knights and squires plundered
those who had been saved from shipwreck. The ship had stranded
some distance south of Nissum Bay, and the cruel, inhuman
days, when, as we have just said, the inhabitants of Jutland
treated the shipwrecked people so crudely were past, long ago.
Affectionate sympathy and self-sacrifice for the unfortunate
existed then, just as it does in our own time in many a bright
example. The dying mother and the unfortunate child would have
found kindness and help wherever they had been cast by the
winds, but nowhere would it have been more sincere than in the
cottage of the poor fisherman's wife, who had stood, only the
day before, beside her child's grave, who would have been five
years old that day if God had spared it to her.
No one knew who the dead stranger was, they could not even
form a conjecture; the fragments of wreckage gave no clue to
the matter.
No tidings reached Spain of the fate of the daughter and
son-in-law. They did not arrive at their destination, and
violent storms had raged during the past weeks. At last the
verdict was given: "Foundered at sea- all lost." But in the
fisherman's cottage among the sand-hills near Hunsby, there
lived a little scion of the rich Spanish family.
Where Heaven sends food for two, a third can manage to
find a meal, and in the depth of the sea there is many a dish
of fish for the hungry.
They called the boy Jurgen.
"It must certainly be a Jewish child, its skin is so
dark," the people said.
"It might be an Italian or a Spaniard," remarked the
clergyman.
But to the fisherman's wife these nations seemed all the
same, and she consoled herself with the thought that the child
was baptized as a Christian.
The boy throve; the noble blood in his veins was warm, and
he became strong on his homely fare. He grew apace in the
humble cottage, and the Danish dialect spoken by the West
Jutes became his language. The pomegranate seed from Spain
became a hardy plant on the coast of West Jutland. Thus may
circumstances alter the course of a man's life! To this home
he clung with deep-rooted affection; he was to experience cold
and hunger, and the misfortunes and hardships that surround
the poor; but he also tasted of their joys.
Childhood has bright days for every one, and the memory of
them shines through the whole after-life. The boy had many
sources of pleasure and enjoyment; the coast for miles and
miles was full of playthings, for it was a mosaic of pebbles,
some red as coral or yellow as amber, and others again white
and rounded like birds' eggs and smoothed and prepared by the
sea. Even the bleached fishes' skeletons, the water plants
dried by the wind, and seaweed, white and shining long
linen-like bands waving between the stones- all these seemed
made to give pleasure and occupation for the boy's thoughts,
and he had an intelligent mind; many great talents lay dormant
in him. How readily he remembered stories and songs that he
heard, and how dexterous he was with his fingers! With stones
and mussel-shells he could put together pictures and ships
with which one could decorate the room; and he could make
wonderful things from a stick, his foster-mother said,
although he was still so young and little. He had a sweet
voice, and every melody seemed to flow naturally from his
lips. And in his heart were hidden chords, which might have
sounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere
else than in the fisherman's hut by the North Sea.
One day another ship was wrecked on the coast, and among
other things a chest filled with valuable flower bulbs was
washed ashore. Some were put into saucepans and cooked, for
they were thought to be fit to eat, and others lay and
shrivelled in the sand- they did not accomplish their purpose,
or unfold their magnificent colours. Would Jurgen fare better?
The flower bulbs had soon played their part, but he had years
of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor his friends
noticed in what a monotonous, uniform way one day followed
another, for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean
itself was a great lesson-book, and it unfolded a new leaf
each day of calm or storm- the crested wave or the smooth
surface.
The visits to the church were festive occasions, but among
the fisherman's house one was especially looked forward to;
this was, in fact, the visit of the brother of Jurgen's
foster-mother, the eel-breeder from Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg.
He came twice a year in a cart, painted red with blue and
white tulips upon it, and full of eels; it was covered and
locked like a box, two dun oxen drew it, and Jurgen was
allowed to guide them.
The eel-breeder was a witty fellow, a merry guest, and
brought a measure of brandy with him. They all received a
small glassful or a cupful if there were not enough glasses;
even Jurgen had about a thimbleful, that he might digest the
fat eel, as the eel-breeder said; he always told one story
over and over again, and if his hearers laughed he would
immediately repeat it to them. Jurgen while still a boy, and
also when he was older, used phrases from the eel-breeder's
story on various occasions, so it will be as well for us to
listen to it. It runs thus:
"The eels went into the bay, and the young ones begged
leave to go a little farther out. 'Don't go too far,' said
their mother; 'the ugly eel-spearer might come and snap you
all up.' But they went too far, and of eight daughters only
three came back to the mother, and these wept and said, 'We
only went a little way out, and the ugly eel-spearer came
immediately and stabbed five of our sisters to death.'
'They'll come back again,' said the mother eel. 'Oh, no,'
exclaimed the daughters, 'for he skinned them, cut them in
two, and fried them.' 'Oh, they'll come back again,' the
mother eel persisted. 'No,' replied the daughters, 'for he ate
them up.' 'They'll come back again,' repeated the mother eel.
'But he drank brandy after them,' said the daughters. 'Ah,
then they'll never come back,' said the mother, and she burst
out crying, 'it's the brandy that buries the eels.'"
"And therefore," said the eel-breeder in conclusion, "it
is always the proper thing to drink brandy after eating eels."
This story was the tinsel thread, the most humorous
recollection of Jurgen's life. He also wanted to go a little
way farther out and up the bay- that is to say, out into the
world in a ship- but his mother said, like the eel-breeder,
"There are so many bad people- eel spearers!" He wished to go
a little way past the sand-hills, out into the dunes, and at
last he did: four happy days, the brightest of his childhood,
fell to his lot, and the whole beauty and splendour of
Jutland, all the happiness and sunshine of his home, were
concentrated in these. He went to a festival, but it was a
burial feast.
A rich relation of the fisherman's family had died; the
farm was situated far eastward in the country and a little
towards the north. Jurgen's foster parents went there, and he
also went with them from the dunes, over heath and moor, where
the Skjaerumaa takes its course through green meadows and
contains many eels; mother eels live there with their
daughters, who are caught and eaten up by wicked people. But
do not men sometimes act quite as cruelly towards their own
fellow-men? Was not the knight Sir Bugge murdered by wicked
people? And though he was well spoken of, did he not also wish
to kill the architect who built the castle for him, with its
thick walls and tower, at the point where the Skjaerumaa falls
into the bay? Jurgen and his parents now stood there; the wall
and the ramparts still remained, and red crumbling fragments
lay scattered around. Here it was that Sir Bugge, after the
architect had left him, said to one of his men, "Go after him
and say, 'Master, the tower shakes.' If he turns round, kill
him and take away the money I paid him, but if he does not
turn round let him go in peace." The man did as he was told;
the architect did not turn round, but called back "The tower
does not shake in the least, but one day a man will come from
the west in a blue cloak- he will cause it to shake!" And so
indeed it happened a hundred years later, for the North Sea
broke in and cast down the tower; but Predbjorn Gyldenstjerne,
the man who then possessed the castle, built a new castle
higher up at the end of the meadow, and that one is standing
to this day, and is called Norre-Vosborg.
Jurgen and his foster parents went past this castle. They
had told him its story during the long winter evenings, and
now he saw the stately edifice, with its double moat, and
trees and bushes; the wall, covered with ferns, rose within
the moat, but the lofty lime-trees were the most beautiful of
all; they grew up to the highest windows, and the air was full
of their sweet fragrance. In a north-west corner of the garden
stood a great bush full of blossom, like winter snow amid the
summer's green; it was a juniper bush, the first that Jurgen
had ever seen in bloom. He never forgot it, nor the
lime-trees; the child's soul treasured up these memories of
beauty and fragrance to gladden the old man.
From Norre-Vosborg, where the juniper blossomed, the
journey became more pleasant, for they met some other people
who were also going to the funeral and were riding in waggons.
Our travellers had to sit all together on a little box at the
back of the waggon, but even this, they thought, was better
than walking. So they continued their journey across the
rugged heath. The oxen which drew the waggon stopped every now
and then, where a patch of fresh grass appeared amid the
heather. The sun shone with considerable heat, and it was
wonderful to behold how in the far distance something like
smoke seemed to be rising; yet this smoke was clearer than the
air; it was transparent, and looked like rays of light rolling
and dancing afar over the heath.
"That is Lokeman driving his sheep," said some one.
And this was enough to excite Jurgen's imagination. He
felt as if they were now about to enter fairyland, though
everything was still real. How quiet it was! The heath
stretched far and wide around them like a beautiful carpet.
The heather was in blossom, and the juniper-bushes and fresh
oak saplings rose like bouquets from the earth. An inviting
place for a frolic, if it had not been for the number of
poisonous adders of which the travellers spoke; they also
mentioned that the place had formerly been infested with
wolves, and that the district was still called Wolfsborg for
this reason. The old man who was driving the oxen told them
that in the lifetime of his father the horses had many a hard
battle with the wild beasts that were now exterminated. One
morning, when he himself had gone out to bring in the horses,
he found one of them standing with its forefeet on a wolf it
had killed, but the savage animal had torn and lacerated the
brave horse's legs.
The journey over the heath and the deep sand was only too
quickly at an end. They stopped before the house of mourning,
where they found plenty of guests within and without. Waggon
after waggon stood side by side, while the horses and oxen had
been turned out to graze on the scanty pasture. Great
sand-hills like those at home by the North Sea rose behind the
house and extended far and wide. How had they come here, so
many miles inland? They were as large and high as those on the
coast, and the wind had carried them there; there was also a
legend attached to them.
Psalms were sung, and a few of the old people shed tears;
with this exception, the guests were cheerful enough, it
seemed to Jurgen, and there was plenty to eat and drink. There
were eels of the fattest, requiring brandy to bury them, as
the eel-breeder said; and certainly they did not forget to
carry out his maxim here.
Jurgen went in and out the house; and on the third day he
felt as much at home as he did in the fisherman's cottage
among the sand-hills, where he had passed his early days. Here
on the heath were riches unknown to him until now; for
flowers, blackberries, and bilberries were to be found in
profusion, so large and sweet that when they were crushed
beneath the tread of passers-by the heather was stained with
their red juice. Here was a barrow and yonder another. Then
columns of smoke rose into the still air; it was a heath fire,
they told him- how brightly it blazed in the dark evening!
The fourth day came, and the funeral festivities were at
an end; they were to go back from the land-dunes to the
sand-dunes.
"Ours are better," said the old fisherman, Jurgen's
foster-father; "these have no strength."
And they spoke of the way in which the sand-dunes had come
inland, and it seemed very easy to understand. This is how
they explained it:
A dead body had been found on the coast, and the peasants
buried it in the churchyard. From that time the sand began to
fly about and the sea broke in with violence. A wise man in
the district advised them to open the grave and see if the
buried man was not lying sucking his thumb, for if so he must
be a sailor, and the sea would not rest until it had got him
back. The grave was opened, and he really was found with his
thumb in his mouth. So they laid him upon a cart, and
harnessed two oxen to it; and the oxen ran off with the sailor
over heath and moor to the ocean, as if they had been stung by
an adder. Then the sand ceased to fly inland, but the hills
that had been piled up still remained.
All this Jurgen listened to and treasured up in his memory
of the happiest days of his childhood- the days of the burial
feast.
How delightful it was to see fresh places and to mix with
strangers! And he was to go still farther, for he was not yet
fourteen years old when he went out in a ship to see the
world. He encountered bad weather, heavy seas, unkindness, and
hard men- such were his experiences, for he became ship-boy.
Cold nights, bad living, and blows had to be endured; then he
felt his noble Spanish blood boil within him, and bitter,
angry, words rose to his lips, but he gulped them down; it was
better, although he felt as the eel must feel when it is
skinned, cut up, and put into the frying-pan.
"I shall get over it," said a voice within him.
He saw the Spanish coast, the native land of his parents.
He even saw the town where they had lived in joy and
prosperity, but he knew nothing of his home or his relations,
and his relations knew just as little about him.
The poor ship boy was not permitted to land, but on the
last day of their stay he managed to get ashore. There were
several purchases to be made, and he was sent to carry them on
board.
Jurgen stood there in his shabby clothes which looked as
if they had been washed in the ditch and dried in the chimney;
he, who had always dwelt among the sand-hills, now saw a great
city for the first time. How lofty the houses seemed, and what
a number of people there were in the streets! some pushing
this way, some that- a perfect maelstrom of citizens and
peasants, monks and soldiers- the jingling of bells on the
trappings of asses and mules, the chiming of church bells,
calling, shouting, hammering and knocking- all going on at
once. Every trade was located in the basement of the houses or
in the side thoroughfares; and the sun shone with such heat,
and the air was so close, that one seemed to be in an oven
full of beetles, cockchafers, bees and flies, all humming and
buzzing together. Jurgen scarcely knew where he was or which
way he went. Then he saw just in front of him the great
doorway of a cathedral; the lights were gleaming in the dark
aisles, and the fragrance of incense was wafted towards him.
Even the poorest beggar ventured up the steps into the
sanctuary. Jurgen followed the sailor he was with into the
church, and stood in the sacred edifice. Coloured pictures
gleamed from their golden background, and on the altar stood
the figure of the Virgin with the child Jesus, surrounded by
lights and flowers; priests in festive robes were chanting,
and choir boys in dazzling attire swung silver censers. What
splendour and magnificence he saw there! It streamed in upon
his soul and overpowered him: the church and the faith of his
parents surrounded him, and touched a chord in his heart that
caused his eyes to overflow with tears.
They went from the church to the market-place. Here a
quantity of provisions were given him to carry. The way to the
harbour was long; and weary and overcome with various
emotions, he rested for a few moments before a splendid house,
with marble pillars, statues, and broad steps. Here he rested
his burden against the wall. Then a porter in livery came out,
lifted up a silver-headed cane, and drove him away- him, the
grandson of that house. But no one knew that, and he just as
little as any one. Then he went on board again, and once more
encountered rough words and blows, much work and little sleep-
such was his experience of life. They say it is good to suffer
in one's young days, if age brings something to make up for
it.
His period of service on board the ship came to an end,
and the vessel lay once more at Ringkjobing in Jutland. He
came ashore, and went home to the sand-dunes near Hunsby; but
his foster-mother had died during his absence.
A hard winter followed this summer. Snow-storms swept over
land and sea, and there was difficulty in getting from one
place to another. How unequally things are distributed in this
world! Here there was bitter cold and snow-storms, while in
Spain there was burning sunshine and oppressive heat. Yet,
when a clear frosty day came, and Jurgen saw the swans flying
in numbers from the sea towards the land, across to
Norre-Vosborg, it seemed to him that people could breathe more
freely here; the summer also in this part of the world was
splendid. In imagination he saw the heath blossom and become
purple with rich juicy berries, and the elder-bushes and
lime-trees at Norre Vosborg in flower. He made up his mind to
go there again.
Spring came, and the fishing began. Jurgen was now an
active helper in this, for he had grown during the last year,
and was quick at work. He was full of life, and knew how to
swim, to tread water, and to turn over and tumble in the
strong tide. They often warned him to beware of the sharks,
which seize the best swimmer, draw him down, and devour him;
but such was not to be Jurgen's fate.
At a neighbour's house in the dunes there was a boy named
Martin, with whom Jurgen was on very friendly terms, and they
both took service in the same ship to Norway, and also went
together to Holland. They never had a quarrel, but a person
can be easily excited to quarrel when he is naturally hot
tempered, for he often shows it in many ways; and this is just
what Jurgen did one day when they fell out about the merest
trifle. They were sitting behind the cabin door, eating from a
delft plate, which they had placed between them. Jurgen held
his pocket-knife in his hand and raised it towards Martin, and
at the same time became ashy pale, and his eyes had an ugly
look. Martin only said, "Ah! ah! you are one of that sort, are
you? Fond of using the knife!"
The words were scarcely spoken, when Jurgen's hand sank
down. He did not answer a syllable, but went on eating, and
afterwards returned to his work. When they were resting again
he walked up to Martin and said:
"Hit me in the face! I deserve it. But sometimes I feel as
if I had a pot in me that boils over."
"There, let the thing rest," replied Martin.
And after that they were almost better friends than ever;
when afterwards they returned to the dunes and began telling
their adventures, this was told among the rest. Martin said
that Jurgen was certainly passionate, but a good fellow after
all.
They were both young and healthy, well-grown and strong;
but Jurgen was the cleverer of the two.
In Norway the peasants go into the mountains and take the
cattle there to find pasture. On the west coast of Jutland
huts have been erected among the sand-hills; they are built of
pieces of wreck, and thatched with turf and heather; there are
sleeping places round the walls, and here the fishermen live
and sleep during the early spring. Every fisherman has a
female helper, or manager as she is called, who baits his
hooks, prepares warm beer for him when he comes ashore, and
gets the dinner cooked and ready for him by the time he comes
back to the hut tired and hungry. Besides this the managers
bring up the fish from the boats, cut them open, prepare them,
and have generally a great deal to do.
Jurgen, his father, and several other fishermen and their
managers inhabited the same hut; Martin lived in the next one.
One of the girls, whose name was Else, had known Jurgen
from childhood; they were glad to see each other, and were of
the same opinion on many points, but in appearance they were
entirely opposite; for he was dark, and she was pale, and
fair, and had flaxen hair, and eyes as blue as the sea in
sunshine.
As they were walking together one day, Jurgen held her
hand very firmly in his, and she said to him: "Jurgen, I
have something I want to say to you; let me be your manager,
for you are like a brother to me; but Martin, whose
housekeeper I am- he is my lover- but you need not tell this
to the others."
It seemed to Jurgen as if the loose sand was giving way
under his feet. He did not speak a word, but nodded his head,
and that meant "yes." It was all that was necessary; but he
suddenly felt in his heart that he hated Martin, and the more
he thought the more he felt convinced that Martin had stolen
away from him the only being he ever loved, and that this was
Else: he had never thought of Else in this way before, but now
it all became plain to him.
When the sea is rather rough, and the fishermen are coming
home in their great boats, it is wonderful to see how they
cross the reefs. One of them stands upright in the bow of the
boat, and the others watch him sitting with the oars in their
hands. Outside the reef it looks as if the boat was not
approaching land but going back to sea; then the man who is
standing up gives them the signal that the great wave is
coming which is to float them across the reef. The boat is
lifted high into the air, so that the keel is seen from the
shore; the next moment nothing can be seen, mast, keel, and
people are all hidden- it seems as though the sea had devoured
them; but in a few moments they emerge like a great sea animal
climbing up the waves, and the oars move as if the creature
had legs. The second and third reef are passed in the same
manner; then the fishermen jump into the water and push the
boat towards the shore- every wave helps them- and at length
they have it drawn up, beyond the reach of the breakers.
A wrong order given in front of the reef- the slightest
hesitation- and the boat would be lost,
"Then it would be all over with me and Martin too!"
This thought passed through Jurgen's mind one day while
they were out at sea, where his foster-father had been taken
suddenly ill. The fever had seized him. They were only a few
oars' strokes from the reef, and Jurgen sprang from his seat
and stood up in the bow.
"Father-let me come!" he said, and he glanced at Martin
and across the waves; every oar bent with the exertions of the
rowers as the great wave came towards them, and he saw his
father's pale face, and dared not obey the evil impulse that
had shot through his brain. The boat came safely across the
reef to land; but the evil thought remained in his heart, and
roused up every little fibre of bitterness which he remembered
between himself and Martin since they had known each other.
But he could not weave the fibres together, nor did he
endeavour to do so. He felt that Martin had robbed him, and
this was enough to make him hate his former friend. Several of
the fishermen saw this, but Martin did not- he remained as
obliging and talkative as ever, in fact he talked rather too
much.
Jurgen's foster-father took to his bed, and it became his
death-bed, for he died a week afterwards; and now Jurgen was
heir to the little house behind the sand-hills. It was small,
certainly, but still it was something, and Martin had nothing
of the kind.
"You will not go to sea again, Jurgen, I suppose,"
observed one of the old fishermen. "You will always stay with
us now."
But this was not Jurgen's intention; he wanted to see
something of the world. The eel-breeder of Fjaltring had an
uncle at Old Skjagen, who was a fisherman, but also a
prosperous merchant with ships upon the sea; he was said to be
a good old man, and it would not be a bad thing to enter his
service. Old Skjagen lies in the extreme north of Jutland, as
far away from the Hunsby dunes as one can travel in that
country; and this is just what pleased Jurgen, for he did not
want to remain till the wedding of Martin and Else, which
would take place in a week or two.
The old fisherman said it was foolish to go away, for now
that Jurgen had a home Else would very likely be inclined to
take him instead of Martin.
Jurgen gave such a vague answer that it was not easy to
make out what he meant- the old man brought Else to him, and
she said:
"You have a home now; you ought to think of that."
And Jurgen thought of many things.
The sea has heavy waves, but there are heavier waves in
the human heart. Many thoughts, strong and weak, rushed
through Jurgen's brain, and he said to Else:
"If Martin had a house like mine, which of us would you
rather have?"
"But Martin has no house and cannot get one."
"Suppose he had one?"
"Well, then I would certainly take Martin, for that is
what my heart tells me; but one cannot live upon love."
Jurgen turned these things over in his mind all night.
Something was working within him, he hardly knew what it was,
but it was even stronger than his love for Else; and so he
went to Martin's, and what he said and did there was well
considered. He let the house to Martin on most liberal terms,
saying that he wished to go to sea again, because he loved it.
And Else kissed him when she heard of it, for she loved Martin
best.
Jurgen proposed to start early in the morning, and on the
evening before his departure, when it was already getting
rather late, he felt a wish to visit Martin once more. He
started, and among the dunes met the old fisherman, who was
angry at his leaving the place. The old man made jokes about
Martin, and declared there must be some magic about that
fellow, of whom the girls were so fond.
Jurgen did not pay any attention to his remarks, but said
good-bye to the old man and went on towards the house where
Martin dwelt. He heard loud talking inside; Martin was not
alone, and this made Jurgen waver in his determination, for he
did not wish to see Else again. On second thoughts, he decided
that it was better not to hear any more thanks from Martin,
and so he turned back.
On the following morning, before the sun rose, he fastened
his knapsack on his back, took his wooden provision box in his
hand, and went away among the sand-hills towards the coast
path. This way was more pleasant than the heavy sand road, and
besides it was shorter; and he intended to go first to
Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg, where the eel-breeder lived, to whom
he had promised a visit.
The sea lay before him, clear and blue, and the mussel
shells and pebbles, the playthings of his childhood, crunched
over his feet. While he thus walked on his nose suddenly began
to bleed; it was a trifling occurrence, but trifles sometimes
are of great importance. A few large drops of blood fell upon
one of his sleeves. He wiped them off and stopped the
bleeding, and it seemed to him as if this had cleared and
lightened his brain. The sea-cale bloomed here and there in
the sand as he passed. He broke off a spray and stuck it in
his hat; he determined to be merry and light-hearted, for he
was going out into the wide world- "a little way out, beyond
the bay," as the young eels had said. "Beware of bad people
who will catch you, and skin you, and put you in the
frying-pan!" he repeated in his mind, and smiled, for he
thought he should find his way through the world- good courage
is a strong weapon!
The sun was high in the heavens when he approached the
narrow entrance to Nissum Bay. He looked back and saw a couple
of horsemen galloping a long distance behind him, and there
were other people with them. But this did not concern him.
The ferry-boat was on the opposite side of the bay. Jurgen
called to the ferry-man, and the latter came over with his
boat. Jurgen stepped in; but before he had got half-way
across, the men whom he had seen riding so hastily, came up,
hailed the ferry-man, and commanded him to return in the name
of the law. Jurgen did not understand the reason of this, but
he thought it would be best to turn back, and therefore he
himself took an oar and returned. As soon as the boat touched
the shore, the men sprang on board, and before he was aware of
it, they had bound his hands with a rope.
"This wicked deed will cost you your life," they said. "It
is a good thing we have caught you."
He was accused of nothing less than murder. Martin had
been found dead, with his throat cut. One of the fishermen,
late on the previous evening, had met Jurgen going towards
Martin's house; this was not the first time Jurgen had raised
his knife against Martin, so they felt sure that he was the
murderer. The prison was in a town at a great distance, and
the wind was contrary for going there by sea; but it would not
take half an hour to get across the bay, and another quarter
of an hour would bring them to Norre-Vosborg, the great castle
with ramparts and moat. One of Jurgen's captors was a
fisherman, a brother of the keeper of the castle, and he said
it might be managed that Jurgen should be placed for the
present in the dungeon at Vosborg, where Long Martha the gipsy
had been shut up till her execution. They paid no attention to
Jurgen's defence; the few drops of blood on his shirt-sleeve
bore heavy witness against him. But he was conscious of his
innocence, and as there was no chance of clearing himself at
present he submitted to his fate.
The party landed just at the place where Sir Bugge's
castle had stood, and where Jurgen had walked with his
foster-parents after the burial feast, during. the four
happiest days of his childhood. He was led by the well-known
path, over the meadow to Vosborg; once more the elders were in
bloom and the lofty lime-trees gave forth sweet fragrance, and
it seemed as if it were but yesterday that he had last seen
the spot. In each of the two wings of the castle there was a
staircase which led to a place below the entrance, from whence
there is access to a low, vaulted cellar. In this dungeon Long
Martha had been imprisoned, and from here she was led away to
the scaffold. She had eaten the hearts of five children, and
had imagined that if she could obtain two more she would be
able to fly and make herself invisible. In the middle of the
roof of the cellar there was a little narrow air-hole, but no
window. The flowering lime trees could not breathe refreshing
fragrance into that abode, where everything was dark and
mouldy. There was only a rough bench in the cell; but a good
conscience is a soft pillow, and therefore Jurgen could sleep
well.
The thick oaken door was locked, and secured on the
outside by an iron bar; but the goblin of superstition can
creep through a keyhole into a baron's castle just as easily
as it can into a fisherman's cottage, and why should he not
creep in here, where Jurgen sat thinking of Long Martha and
her wicked deeds? Her last thoughts on the night before her
execution had filled this place, and the magic that tradition
asserted to have been practised here, in Sir Svanwedel's time,
came into Jurgen's mind, and made him shudder; but a sunbeam,
a refreshing thought from without, penetrated his heart even
here- it was the remembrance of the flowering elder and the
sweet smelling lime-trees.
He was not left there long. They took him away to the town
of Ringkjobing, where he was imprisoned with equal severity.
Those times were not like ours. The common people were
treated harshly; and it was just after the days when farms
were converted into knights' estates, when coachmen and
servants were often made magistrates, and had power to
sentence a poor man, for a small offence, to lose his property
and to corporeal punishment. Judges of this kind were still to
be found; and in Jutland, so far from the capital, and from
the enlightened, well-meaning, head of the Government, the law
was still very loosely administered sometimes- the smallest
grievance Jurgen could expect was that his case should be
delayed.
His dwelling was cold and comfortless; and how long would
he be obliged to bear all this? It seemed his fate to suffer
misfortune and sorrow innocently. He now had plenty of time to
reflect on the difference of fortune on earth, and to wonder
why this fate had been allotted to him; yet he felt sure that
all would be made clear in the next life, the existence that
awaits us when this life is over. His faith had grown strong
in the poor fisherman's cottage; the light which had never
shone into his father's mind, in all the richness and sunshine
of Spain, was sent to him to be his comfort in poverty and
distress, a sign of that mercy of God which never fails.
The spring storms began to blow. The rolling and moaning
of the North Sea could be heard for miles inland when the wind
was blowing, and then it sounded like the rushing of a
thousand waggons over a hard road with a mine underneath.
Jurgen heard these sounds in his prison, and it was a relief
to him. No music could have touched his heart as did these
sounds of the sea- the rolling sea, the boundless sea, on
which a man can be borne across the world before the wind,
carrying his own house with him wherever he goes, just as the
snail carries its home even into a strange country.
He listened eagerly to its deep murmur and then the
thought arose- "Free! free! How happy to be free, even
barefooted and in ragged clothes!" Sometimes, when such
thoughts crossed his mind, the fiery nature rose within him,
and he beat the wall with his clenched fists.
Weeks, months, a whole year had gone by, when Niels the
thief, called also a horse-dealer, was arrested; and now
better times came, and it was seen that Jurgen had been
wrongly accused.
On the afternoon before Jurgen's departure from home, and
before the murder, Niels the thief, had met Martin at a
beer-house in the neighbourhood of Ringkjobing. A few glasses
were drank, not enough to cloud the brain, but enough to
loosen Martin's tongue. He began to boast and to say that he
had obtained a house and intended to marry, and when Niels
asked him where he was going to get the money, he slapped his
pocket proudly and said:
"The money is here, where it ought to be."
This boast cost him his life; for when he went home Niels
followed him, and cut his throat, intending to rob the
murdered man of the gold, which did not exist.
All this was circumstantially explained; but it is enough
for us to know that Jurgen was set free. But what compensation
did he get for having been imprisoned a whole year, and shut
out from all communication with his fellow creatures? They
told him he was fortunate in being proved innocent, and that
he might go. The burgomaster gave him two dollars for
travelling expenses, and many citizens offered him provisions
and beer- there were still good people; they were not all hard
and pitiless. But the best thing of all was that the merchant
Bronne, of Skjagen, into whose service Jurgen had proposed
entering the year before, was just at that time on business in
the town of Ringkjobing. Bronne heard the whole story; he was
kind-hearted, and understood what Jurgen must have felt and
suffered. Therefore he made up his mind to make it up to the
poor lad, and convince him that there were still kind folks in
the world.
So Jurgen went forth from prison as if to paradise, to
find freedom, affection, and trust. He was to travel this path
now, for no goblet of life is all bitterness; no good man
would pour out such a draught for his fellow-man, and how
should He do it, Who is love personified?
"Let everything be buried and forgotten," said Bronne, the
merchant. "Let us draw a thick line through last year: we will
even burn the almanack. In two days we will start for dear,
friendly, peaceful Skjagen. People call it an out-of-the-way
corner; but it is a good warm chimney-corner, and its windows
open toward every part of the world."
What a journey that was: It was like taking fresh breath
out of the cold dungeon air into the warm sunshine. The
heather bloomed in pride and beauty, and the shepherd-boy sat
on a barrow and blew his pipe, which he had carved for himself
out of a sheep bone. Fata Morgana, the beautiful aerial
phenomenon of the wilderness, appeared with hanging gardens
and waving forests, and the wonderful cloud called "Lokeman
driving his sheep" also was seen.
Up towards Skjagen they went, through the land of the
Wendels, whence the men with long beards (the Longobardi or
Lombards) had emigrated in the reign of King Snio, when all
the children and old people were to have been killed, till the
noble Dame Gambaruk proposed that the young people should
emigrate. Jurgen knew all this, he had some little knowledge;
and although he did not know the land of the Lombards beyond
the lofty Alps, he had an idea that it must be there, for in
his boyhood he had been in the south, in Spain. He thought of
the plenteousness of the southern fruit, of the red
pomegranate flowers, of the humming, buzzing, and toiling in
the great beehive of a city he had seen; but home is the best
place after all, and Jurgen's home was Denmark.
At last they arrived at "Vendilskaga," as Skjagen is
called in old Norwegian and Icelandic writings. At that time
Old Skjagen, with the eastern and western town, extended for
miles, with sand hills and arable land as far as the
lighthouse near "Grenen." Then, as now, the houses were strewn
among the wind-raised sand-hills- a wilderness in which the
wind sports with the sand, and where the voice of the sea-gull
and wild swan strikes harshly on the ear.
In the south-west, a mile from "Grenen," lies Old Skjagen;
merchant Bronne dwelt here, and this was also to be Jurgen's
home for the future. The dwelling-house was tarred, and all
the small out-buildings had been put together from pieces of
wreck. There was no fence, for indeed there was nothing to
fence in except the long rows of fishes which were hung upon
lines, one above the other, to dry in the wind. The entire
coast was strewn with spoiled herrings, for there were so many
of these fish that a net was scarcely thrown into the sea
before it was filled. They were caught by carloads, and many
of them were either thrown back into the sea or left to lie on
the beach.
The old man's wife and daughter and his servants also came
to meet him with great rejoicing. There was a great squeezing
of hands, and talking and questioning. And the daughter, what
a sweet face and bright eyes she had!
The inside of the house was comfortable and roomy.
Fritters, that a king would have looked upon as a dainty dish,
were placed on the table, and there was wine from the Skjagen
vineyard- that is, the sea; for there the grapes come ashore
ready pressed and prepared in barrels and in bottles.
When the mother and daughter heard who Jurgen was, and how
innocently he had suffered, they looked at him in a still more
friendly way; and pretty Clara's eyes had a look of especial
interest as she listened to his story. Jurgen found a happy
home in Old Skjagen. It did his heart good, for it had been
sorely tried. He had drunk the bitter goblet of love which
softens or hardens the heart, according to circumstances.
Jurgen's heart was still soft- it was young, and therefore it
was a good thing that Miss Clara was going in three weeks'
time to Christiansand in Norway, in her father's ship, to
visit an aunt and to stay there the whole winter.
On the Sunday before she went away they all went to
church, to the Holy Communion. The church was large and
handsome, and had been built centuries before by Scotchmen and
Dutchmen; it stood some little way out of the town. It was
rather ruinous certainly, and the road to it was heavy,
through deep sand, but the people gladly surmounted these
difficulties to get to the house of God, to sing psalms and to
hear the sermon. The sand had heaped itself up round the walls
of the church, but the graves were kept free from it.
It was the largest church north of the Limfjorden. The
Virgin Mary, with a golden crown on her head and the child
Jesus in her arms, stood lifelike on the altar; the holy
Apostles had been carved in the choir, and on the walls there
were portraits of the old burgomasters and councillors of
Skjagen; the pulpit was of carved work. The sun shone brightly
into the church, and its radiance fell on the polished brass
chandelier and on the little ship that hung from the vaulted
roof.
Jurgen felt overcome by a holy, childlike feeling, like
that which possessed him, when, as a boy, he stood in the
splendid Spanish cathedral. But here the feeling was
different, for he felt conscious of being one of the
congregation.
After the sermon followed Holy Communion. He partook of
the bread and wine, and it so happened that he knelt by the
side of Miss Clara; but his thoughts were so fixed upon heaven
and the Holy Sacrament that he did not notice his neighbour
until he rose from his knees, and then he saw tears rolling
down her cheeks.
She left Skjagen and went to Norway two days later. He
remained behind, and made himself useful on the farm and at
the fishery. He went out fishing, and in those days fish were
more plentiful and larger than they are now. The shoals of the
mackerel glittered in the dark nights, and indicated where
they were swimming; the gurnards snarled, and the crabs gave
forth pitiful yells when they were chased, for fish are not so
mute as people say.
Every Sunday Jurgen went to church; and when his eyes
rested on the picture of the Virgin Mary over the altar as he
sat there, they often glided away to the spot where they had
knelt side by side.
Autumn came, and brought rain and snow with it; the water
rose up right into the town of Skjagen, the sand could not
suck it all in, one had to wade through it or go by boat. The
storms threw vessel after vessel on the fatal reefs; there
were snow-storm and sand-storms; the sand flew up to the
houses, blocking the entrances, so that people had to creep up
through the chimneys; that was nothing at all remarkable here.
It was pleasant and cheerful indoors, where peat fuel and
fragments of wood from the wrecks blazed and crackled upon the
hearth. Merchant Bronne read aloud, from an old chronicle,
about Prince Hamlet of Denmark, who had come over from
England, landed near Bovbjerg, and fought a battle; close by
Ramme was his grave, only a few miles from the place where the
eel-breeder lived; hundreds of barrow rose there from the
heath, forming as it were an enormous churchyard. Merchant
Bronne had himself been at Hamlet's grave; they spoke about
old times, and about their neighbours, the English and the
Scotch, and Jurgen sang the air of "The King of England's
Son," and of his splendid ship and its outfit.
"In the hour of peril when most men fear,
He clasped the bride that he held so dear,
And proved himself the son of a King;
Of his courage and valour let us sing."
This verse Jurgen sang with so much feeling that his eyes
beamed, and they were black and sparkling since his infancy.
There was wealth, comfort, and happiness even among the
domestic animals, for they were all well cared for, and well
kept. The kitchen looked bright with its copper and tin
utensils, and white plates, and from the rafters hung hams,
beef, and winter stores in plenty. This can still be seen in
many rich farms on the west coast of Jutland: plenty to eat
and drink, clean, prettily decorated rooms, active minds,
cheerful tempers, and hospitality can be found there, as in an
Arab's tent.
Jurgen had never spent such a happy time since the famous
burial feast, and yet Miss Clara was absent, except in the
thoughts and memory of all.
In April a ship was to start for Norway, and Jurgen was to
sail in it. He was full of life and spirits, and looked so
sturdy and well that Dame Bronne said it did her good to see
him.
"And it does one good to look at you also, old wife," said
the merchant. "Jurgen has brought fresh life into our winter
evenings, and into you too, mother. You look younger than ever
this year, and seem well and cheerful. But then you were once
the prettiest girl in Viborg, and that is saying a great deal,
for I have always found the Viborg girls the prettiest of
any."
Jurgen said nothing, but he thought of a certain maiden of
Skjagen, whom he was soon to visit. The ship set sail for
Christiansand in Norway, and as the wind was favourable it
soon arrived there.
One morning merchant Bronne went out to the lighthouse,
which stands a little way out of Old Skjagen, not far from
"Grenen." The light was out, and the sun was already high in
the heavens, when he mounted the tower. The sand-banks extend
a whole mile from the shore, beneath the water, outside these
banks; many ships could be seen that day, and with the aid of
his telescope the old man thought he descried his own ship,
the Karen Bronne. Yes! certainly, there she was, sailing
homewards with Clara and Jurgen on board.
Clara sat on deck, and saw the sand-hills gradually
appearing in the distance; the church and lighthouse looked
like a heron and a swan rising from the blue waters. If the
wind held good they might reach home in about an hour. So near
they were to home and all its joys- so near to death and all
its terrors! A plank in the ship gave way, and the water
rushed in; the crew flew to the pumps, and did their best to
stop the leak. A signal of distress was hoisted, but they were
still fully a mile from the shore. Some fishing boats were in
sight, but they were too far off to be of any use. The wind
blew towards the land, the tide was in their favour, but it
was all useless; the ship could not be saved.
Jurgen threw his right arm round Clara, and pressed her to
him. With what a look she gazed up into his face, as with a
prayer to God for help he breasted the waves, which rushed
over the sinking ship! She uttered a cry, but she felt safe
and certain that he would not leave her to sink. And in this
hour of terror and danger Jurgen felt as the king's son did,
as told in the old song:
"In the hour of peril when most men fear,
He clasped the bride that he held so dear."
How glad he felt that he was a good swimmer! He worked his
way onward with his feet and one arm, while he held the young
girl up firmly with the other. He rested on the waves, he trod
the water- in fact, did everything he could think of, in order
not to fatigue himself, and to reserve strength enough to
reach land. He heard Clara sigh, and felt her shudder
convulsively, and he pressed her more closely to him. Now and
then a wave rolled over them, the current lifted them; the
water, although deep, was so clear that for a moment he
imagined he saw the shoals of mackerel glittering, or
Leviathan himself ready to swallow them. Now the clouds cast a
shadow over the water, then again came the playing sunbeams;
flocks of loudly screaming birds passed over him, and the
plump and lazy wild ducks which allow themselves to be drifted
by the waves rose up terrified at the sight of the swimmer. He
began to feel his strength decreasing, but he was only a few
cable lengths' distance from the shore, and help was coming,
for a boat was approaching him. At this moment he distinctly
saw a white staring figure under the water- a wave lifted him
up, and he came nearer to the figure- he felt a violent shock,
and everything became dark around him.
On the sand reef lay the wreck of a ship, which was
covered with water at high tide; the white figure head rested
against the anchor, the sharp iron edge of which rose just
above the surface. Jurgen had come in contact with this; the
tide had driven him against it with great force. He sank down
stunned with the blow, but the next wave lifted him and the
young girl up again. Some fishermen, coming with a boat,
seized them and dragged them into it. The blood streamed down
over Jurgen's face; he seemed dead, but still held the young
girl so tightly that they were obliged to take her from him by
force. She was pale and lifeless; they laid her in the boat,
and rowed as quickly as possible to the shore. They tried
every means to restore Clara to life, but it was all of no
avail. Jurgen had been swimming for some distance with a
corpse in his arms, and had exhausted his strength for one who
was dead.
Jurgen still breathed, so the fishermen carried him to the
nearest house upon the sand-hills, where a smith and general
dealer lived who knew something of surgery, and bound up
Jurgen's wounds in a temporary way until a surgeon could be
obtained from the nearest town the next day. The injured man's
brain was affected, and in his delirium he uttered wild cries;
but on the third day he lay quiet and weak upon his bed; his
life seemed to hang by a thread, and the physician said it
would be better for him if this thread broke. "Let us pray
that God may take him," he said, "for he will never be the
same man again."
But life did not depart from him- the thread would not
break, but the thread of memory was severed; the thread of his
mind had been cut through, and what was still more grievous, a
body remained- a living healthy body that wandered about like
a troubled spirit.
Jurgen remained in merchant Bronne's house. "He was hurt
while endeavouring to save our child," said the old man, "and
now he is our son." People called Jurgen insane, but that was
not exactly the correct term. He was like an instrument in
which the strings are loose and will give no sound; only
occasionally they regained their power for a few minutes, and
then they sounded as they used to do. He would sing snatches
of songs or old melodies, pictures of the past would rise
before him, and then disappear in the mist, as it were, but as
a general rule he sat staring into vacancy, without a thought.
We may conjecture that he did not suffer, but his dark eyes
lost their brightness, and looked like clouded glass.
"Poor mad Jurgen," said the people. And this was the end
of a life whose infancy was to have been surrounded with
wealth and splendour had his parents lived! All his great
mental abilities had been lost, nothing but hardship, sorrow,
and disappointment had been his fate. He was like a rare
plant, torn from its native soil, and tossed upon the beach to
wither there. And was this one of God's creatures, fashioned
in His own likeness, to have no better fate? Was he to be only
the plaything of fortune? No! the all-loving Creator would
certainly repay him in the life to come for what he had
suffered and lost here. "The Lord is good to all; and His
mercy is over all His works." The pious old wife of the
merchant repeated these words from the Psalms of David in
patience and hope, and the prayer of her heart was that Jurgen
might soon be called away to enter into eternal life.
In the churchyard where the walls were surrounded with
sand Clara lay buried. Jurgen did not seem to know this; it
did not enter his mind, which could only retain fragments of
the past. Every Sunday he went to church with the old people,
and sat there silently, staring vacantly before him. One day,
when the Psalms were being sung, he sighed deeply, and his
eyes became bright; they were fixed upon a place near the
altar where he had knelt with his friend who was dead. He
murmured her name, and became deadly pale, and tears rolled
down his cheeks. They led him out of church; he told those
standing round him that he was well, and had never been ill;
he, who had been so grievously afflicted, the outcast, thrown
upon the world, could not remember his sufferings. The Lord
our Creator is wise and full of loving kindness- who can doubt
it?
In Spain, where balmy breezes blow over the Moorish
cupolas and gently stir the orange and myrtle groves, where
singing and the sound of the castanets are always heard, the
richest merchant in the place, a childless old man, sat in a
luxurious house, while children marched in procession through
the streets with waving flags and lighted tapers. If he had
been able to press his children to his heart, his daughter, or
her child, that had, perhaps never seen the light of day, far
less the kingdom of heaven, how much of his wealth would he
not have given! "Poor child!" Yes, poor child- a child still,
yet more than thirty years old, for Jurgen had arrived at this
age in Old Skjagen.
The shifting sands had covered the graves in the
courtyard, quite up to the church walls, but still, the dead
must be buried among their relatives and the dear ones who had
gone before them. Merchant Bronne and his wife now rested with
their children under the white sand.
It was in the spring- the season of storms. The sand from
the dunes was whirled up in clouds; the sea was rough, and
flocks of birds flew like clouds in the storm, screaming
across the sand-hills. Shipwreck followed upon shipwreck on
the reefs between Old Skagen and the Hunsby dunes.
One evening Jurgen sat in his room alone: all at once his
mind seemed to become clearer, and a restless feeling came
over him, such as had often, in his younger days, driven him
out to wander over the sand-hills or on the heath. "Home,
home!" he cried. No one heard him. He went out and walked
towards the dunes. Sand and stones blew into his face, and
whirled round him; he went in the direction of the church. The
sand was banked up the walls, half covering the windows, but
it had been cleared away in front of the door, and the
entrance was free and easy to open, so Jurgen went into the
church.
The storm raged over the town of Skjagen; there had not
been such a terrible tempest within the memory of the
inhabitants, nor such a rough sea. But Jurgen was in the
temple of God, and while the darkness of night reigned
outside, a light arose in his soul that was never to depart
from it; the heavy weight that pressed on his brain burst
asunder. He fancied he heard the organ, but it was only the
storm and the moaning of the sea. He sat down on one of the
seats, and lo! the candies were lighted one by one, and there
was brightness and grandeur such as he had only seen in the
Spanish cathedral. The portraits of the old citizens became
alive, stepped down from the walls against which they had hung
for centuries, and took seats near the church door. The gates
flew open, and all the dead people from the churchyard came
in, and filled the church, while beautiful music sounded. Then
the melody of the psalm burst forth, like the sound of the
waters, and Jurgen saw that his foster parents from the Hunsby
dunes were there, also old merchant Bronne with his wife and
their daughter Clara, who gave him her hand. They both went up
to the altar where they had knelt before, and the priest
joined their hands and united them for life. Then music was
heard again; it was wonderfully sweet, like a child's voice,
full of joy and expectation, swelling to the powerful tones of
a full organ, sometimes soft and sweet, then like the sounds
of a tempest, delightful and elevating to hear, yet strong
enough to burst the stone tombs of the dead. Then the little
ship that hung from the roof of the choir was let down and
looked wonderfully large and beautiful with its silken sails
and rigging:
"The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,
And everywhere riches and pomp untold,"
as the old song says.
The young couple went on board, accompanied by the whole
congregation, for there was room and enjoyment for them all.
Then the walls and arches of the church were covered with
flowering junipers and lime trees breathing forth fragrance;
the branches waved, creating a pleasant coolness; they bent
and parted, and the ship sailed between them through the air
and over the sea. Every candle in the church became a star,
and the wind sang a hymn in which they all joined. "Through
love to glory, no life is lost, the future is full of
blessings and happiness. Hallelujah!" These were the last
words Jurgen uttered in this world, for the thread that bound
his immortal soul was severed, and nothing but the dead body
lay in the dark church, while the storm raged outside,
covering it with loose sand.
The next day was Sunday, and the congregation and their
pastor went to the church. The road had always been heavy, but
now it was almost unfit for use, and when they at last arrived
at the church, a great heap of sand lay piled up in front of
them. The whole church was completely buried in sand. The
clergyman offered a short prayer, and said that God had closed
the door of His house here, and that the congregation must go
and build a new one for Him somewhere else. So they sung a
hymn in the open air, and went home again.
Jurgen could not be found anywhere in the town of Skjagen,
nor on the dunes, though they searched for him everywhere.
They came to the conclusion that one of the great waves, which
had rolled far up on the beach, had carried him away; but his
body lay buried in a great sepulchre- the church itself. The
Lord had thrown down a covering for his grave during the
storm, and the heavy mound of sand lies upon it to this day.
The drifting sand had covered the vaulted roof of the church,
the arched cloisters, and the stone aisles. The white thorn
and the dog rose now blossom above the place where the church
lies buried, but the spire, like an enormous monument over a
grave, can be seen for miles round. No king has a more
splendid memorial. Nothing disturbs the peaceful sleep of the
dead. I was the first to hear this story, for the storm sung
it to me among the sand-hills.
THE END